


Physician Heal Thyself

by Ghyste



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Complete, Gen, Humor, Pre-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 20:03:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghyste/pseuds/Ghyste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which, against all odds, young Frodo enjoys the best of health</p>
            </blockquote>





	Physician Heal Thyself

**Author's Note:**

> The sheer number of unfortunate things that seem to happen to young Frodo in fanfiction made me wonder whether maybe someone was doing it deliberately...

Dr Hildifons Brownlock was a hobbit with an eye to the main chance. A young and purposeful fellow lately arrived in Hobbiton from Buckland where he had served his apprenticeship under the ageing Dr Clearwater, Hildifons had his future clearly mapped out - and it was to be a glowing one, of that there was no doubt whatsoever in his mind.

Hildifons had taken a gamble by accepting the post in Hobbiton, the place being something of a backwater compared to his old stamping ground, but he had been sure that this was the place to make his mark on the world. His mentor had taught him that the art of prospering as a Physician depended not upon how many people one healed but upon whom they were. You could save as many farm labourers as you liked and no one would notice you, but if you saved one of the scions of the leading families you were set for life. The Tooks and the Brandybucks were all well catered for in the medical line and even the Mayor in Michel Delving had physicians vying for his trade. In Hobbiton on the other hand there was only old Bilbo Baggins and he was as tough as old nails. There was very little in the way of reputation garnering medical opportunity to be had from a patron who not only failed to fall ill but also, by all accounts, didn’t even seem to age. However, Hildifons kept his ear to the ground and when the local gossips started talking about Bilbo adopting young Frodo he seized the opportunity in both hands before someone else could reap the likely rewards.

Frodo Baggins was a young hobbit barely in his tweens and, although Hildifons knew of no recurring health problems in his past, he did know that the arrival of Frodo in Bag End would more than double the opportunities of being called upon to perform a miracle cure. Not only were there the usual illnesses that preyed on those who had not yet achieved their full adult girth, there was also the fact that youngsters were forever falling out of trees or into lakes or going out in the rain without adequate clothing. Rumour would have it that Frodo had been a bit of a scamp during the time he had spent living at Brandy Hall, though it was said that the Master had kept the worst of it quiet, and if those tendencies followed him to Hobbiton then all the better. Added to that was the fact that, privately, he considered Mad Baggins to be the last person to instil a sense of self-preservation into his young cousin, what with all that running about with dwarves and dragons or suchlike nonsense that he’d supposedly got up to in the past.

Unfortunately Frodo seemed set to follow in Bilbo’s footsteps when it came to contracting interesting diseases, or rather not contracting them, and his growing interest in Bilbo’s more scholarly pursuits provided little in the way of opportunity for nasty accidents. Although other business in Hobbiton was brisk, Hildifons was getting more than a little tired of passing his days tending to a seemingly endless parade of yokels with pitchforks though their feet or boils on their bottoms and if he never saw another child with a saucepan stuck on its head it was going to be far too soon. It was all most frustrating – fribbling his time away on things that a simple hedge-doctor could handle, when he knew he was destined for far greater things. That was why he decided to take matters into his own hands. It wasn’t that he actually planned to harm the Squire’s young cousin; it was just that when the opportunity presented itself he couldn’t stop himself from taking advantage and it seemed to spiral from there.

It all started one day when Hildifons was on his way to see one of the young Cotton children who had come down with a nasty bout of earache. He had no great enthusiasm for the task and would, no doubt, be expected to take his pay in turnips. On his way there he happened to spot young Frodo walking alone by the Water. Later he would wonder how he had the nerve to do what he did, but at the time it seemed quite obvious that this opportunity had been sent his way by providence.

Frodo seemed quite lost in thoughts as he wandered along, poking amongst the reeds with a stick and humming under his breath. He certainly did not notice the Physician approaching behind him along the narrow river path until his presence intruded upon him in the most dramatic of ways. Hildifons had increased his pace as he approached Frodo and went to pass him, so as he stumbled his Doctor’s bag caught Frodo in the small of the back with bruising force and catapulted the slighter Hobbit straight into the water. Unfortunately for Hildifons, Frodo’s flailing hands caught hold of his coat as he fell and gripped tightly. Thus it was that Hildifons, already off balance from his feigned stumble, followed Frodo into the river.

Hildifons could not be described as athletic, even for a hobbit. Long evenings studying as a youth, followed as an adult by longer ones spent ingratiating himself with those he considered influential, were hardly the best recipe for fitness. Nor had Hildifons embraced the Bucklandish enthusiasm for swimming and thus, weighted down as he was by his flapping coat and the Doctor’s bag still clutched in his hand, he soon found himself in the direst of straits as the water closed over his head. 

Suddenly a slender arm looped itself around his neck and started dragging him up towards the blessed light. As he broke the surface a voice spoke in his ear:

“It’s all right, Doctor, just relax. I’ve got you.” 

He complied with the instruction and found himself being towed towards the bank. Shortly the voice spoke again: 

“Hold onto these rushes for a moment and then I’ll get you out.” 

As Hildifons clung to the rushes he saw a slight body swarming up the bank. Then a hand was reaching out and taking his in a surprisingly strong grip as Frodo hauled him unceremoniously onto the path where he lay wet, shivering and coughing up water.

“Are you all right?” asked Frodo in concerned tones as he crouched beside Hildifons and put a hand on his heaving shoulder. “It’s Dr Brownlock, isn’t it?”

Hildifons was not yet capable of speech and just nodded. This really wasn’t how he had envisaged such an encounter progressing. In his imagination he had been Frodo’s saviour, pulling him out of the river’s cold embrace and bringing him back to life to the applause of an admiring throng of villagers. Instead he was the one who lay gasping on the riverbank like some stranded fish. 

Once he was capable of movement, Frodo helped him to his feet, drew the taller hobbit’s arm over his shoulders and supported him as they made their slow way back to the village.

That evening in the Green Dragon, once the new shipment of ale had been thoroughly tasted and pronounced not at all bad, the talk turned to young Frodo’s misadventure.

“No Bilbo Baggins in tonight, then?” Olo Proudfoot asked the Landlord. “Not like him to miss the new season’s brew.”

“Nay, hadn’t you heard? Young Frodo took a tumble into the Water this morning.”

“Is he all right?” asked Olo.

“Aye, right as rain, though Bilbo thought he’s best stay home with him tonight. I’ll lay a bet that he’ll be through tomorrow to make up for lost time.” The Landlord nodded at Farmer Cotton, who had just come up to the bar for a refill. “I hear Dr Brownlock fell in at the same time and weren’t so lucky. Gone down with a right nasty cough, he has.” 

“Aye,” said Cotton, “He were on his way over to look at my Tom’s ear but never made it. We had to hail old Dora Stripper over from Overhill to sort him out in the end. She popped some bits of hot potato in there and soon it were as good as new. Then she went on to Hobbiton to have a look at Dr Brownlock, but he wasn’t having none of it. Said he didn’t need some half-trained hedge-witch rubbing his chest with goose grease.” 

“There’s one hobbit who’s growed too big for his britches,” remarked Ham Gamgee to no one in particular.

***

It was several days before Hildifons was up and about again, several days that he spent festering over the iniquity of his situation. During this time, what had started as a moment’s madness became a fully evolved campaign and when Hildifons finally rose from his bed of pain he was itching to put it into effect. This time, instead of using brute force, he would pit his intellect against young Frodo Baggins and this time he would triumph.

Hildifons pulled out his textbooks and turned to the pages on mushrooms. The nights were drawing in and the best season for mushroom picking was approaching. Soon he found just what he was looking for; a poisonous one that was almost identical to its tastier brother apart from a light dusting of green spores, and they didn’t even have those if you caught them young enough. All he had to do was to find the right fruiting body and slip one in with Frodo’s haul. It wouldn’t kill him, but it would make him sick enough that Bilbo would be bound to call him in.

The opportunity to put his plan into effect did not arise for several weeks, despite the fact that Hildifons took to taking early morning constitutionals in the fields and woods around Bag End. Although he saw many of the other residents of Hobbiton out and about, his quarry eluded him. Finally, however, the morning came when he spotted Frodo on the path with basket in hand. Quickly, Hildifons slipped back into the trees and headed for the place where he had previously seen the mushrooms he was after. As luck would have it there was a fresh crop and Hildifons quickly chose the least obvious one before heading back to where he had last seen Frodo.

“Good morning, Master Baggins,” he said as he approached.

“Good morning, Dr Brownlock,“ replied Frodo affably, “I’m pleased to see you looking so much better.”

“Ah,” said Hildifons, slapping his chest in a hearty fashion and breathing deeply, “there’s nothing quite like an early morning stroll to blow away the cobwebs.” He looked down at the contents of Frodo’s basket, remarking: “Those are some fine mushrooms you’ve got there, young man.” 

“Yes, although I can’t claim the credit for picking them,” said Frodo with a smile, “Bilbo fancied some for our breakfast. He was too hungry to wait while I went out and picked them so I popped down to the market instead.”

“I think I saw a very good patch of them over yonder if you’re in need another morning,” said Hildifons, pointing behind Frodo. As Frodo turned and looked, Hildifons popped the poisonous mushroom into his basket.

Turning back, Frodo thanked him politely and then set off in the direction of Bag End.

Later that morning, as Hildifons was on his way home, he ran into Bilbo Baggins who was heading in the other direction. For a moment he thought that Bilbo might be looking for him but instead of looking concerned, as he would do if his heir were ill, Bilbo simply wore his usual expression of mild preoccupation. Hildifons smiled and nodded to him as he drew close and then halted as Bilbo put a hand on his arm.

“Dr Brownlock,” said Bilbo, “I’ve been meaning to come and see you to say how sorry I was that you ended up with a nasty chill after your encounter with my rapscallion cousin. If you’re free tonight, I wondered if you might like to join Frodo and I for dinner.”

Hildifons was elated. Perhaps this was the opening he had been looking for, a chance to get his feet under the table at Bag End - he just had to make sure he didn’t eat any mushrooms while he was there. “I’d be delighted,” he said with a slight bow.

“Splendid, splendid,” said Bilbo, “say about eight o’clock?”

Hildifons inclined his head once more and then continued on his way.

By the time Hildifons arrived at Bag End he was the very picture of sartorial elegance and was quite surprised to find that neither Bilbo nor Frodo had changed out of their everyday wear. He was even more surprised to find out that Bilbo himself had done the cooking and that they were to eat in the kitchen. 

“Come in, come in and sit yourself down. We none of us stand on ceremony here,” said Bilbo, gesturing to a seat covered with books and papers that seemed to have strayed in from the study. Hildifons removed these and dusted the seat with his pocket-handkerchief before sitting. 

Alas, the erudite conversation in which Hildifons had expected to shine proved to be impossible for the time being since Bilbo cooked with all the fervour of a small whirlwind, tending several different pans at the same time whilst simultaneously chopping, kneading and throwing orders that sent Frodo scurrying hither and yon. Left at something of a loose end, Hildifons frowned at the glass of, admittedly rather fine, wine that Frodo had poured for him in passing and pondered on the serious harm that could come to a hobbit tween in the kitchen.

The meal when it arrived was delicious and, to Hildifons’ profound relief, appeared to be mercifully free from mushrooms. A few more glasses of wine rendered Bilbo positively garrulous but sadly, despite Hildifons’ best attempts to steer the conversation in the direction of his own medical prowess, Bilbo would insist on talking about the kind of thing that Hildifons firmly believed no respectable hobbit should know about. Whilst Frodo seemed enthralled, Hildifons decided that for his own good he should filter out a substantial proportion of Bilbo’s ramblings and thus nearly missed it when the subject of mushrooms made a surprise appearance in the conversation.

“What was that?” asked Hildifons.

“Oh,” said Bilbo, “I was just saying that breakfast this morning would have been more of an adventure than any of us wanted. Seems they gave Frodo a Green Gill along with the Parasols when he went to the market this morning. It’s easy enough done and I certainly didn’t spot it. We’d have been getting a rather different visit from you today if it weren’t for Frodo’s sharp eyes.”

Hildifons silently called down a curse on Frodo’s ‘sharp eyes’ and took a bite of cheese followed by a long draught of his wine. Unfortunately the cheese proceeded to go down the wrong way, lodging in his throat and sending him into a sudden spasm of gasps and wheezes. Hildifons found that he could neither breathe nor speak. He could feel his face reddening and his eyes bulging when suddenly he felt a sharp slap on his back and the offending cheese popped out onto the tablecloth before him. He stared at it in disbelief as he clutched the edge of the table and listened as the Bagginses conversed over his bowed head.

“Oh well done, Frodo,” said Bilbo, “where did you learn that?”

”I saw Cousin Esmeralda do it once when Merry swallowed a button,” replied Frodo. “You know Merry, he’ll put anything in his mouth.”

“Or up his nose, if I remember their last visit,” agreed Bilbo. He patted Hildifons on the shoulder saying, bracingly, “that’s it, Dr Brownlock, breathe deeply and you’ll soon feel right as rain.”

“Could I have some water?” rasped Hildifons.

“Sore throat, eh?” asked Bilbo. “You’d be better off with blackcurrant tea, Dora Stripper always swears by it during the cold season.”

“I’ve heard that coltsfoot and honey is good too,” chimed in Frodo.

Bilbo nodded. “Or cider and ginger, though that might not mix too well with all the wine he’s drunk.”

“Uncle Saradoc used to say that Great Aunt Menegilda would make him suck on a copper rod when he had a sore throat. I think that cure sounds worse than the illness,” observed Frodo.

“Hmm,“ said Bilbo, “I hadn’t heard of that one. I wonder if it came from the dwarves?”

“I doubt that Aunt Menny would be too pleased to hear that she was using dwarf remedies,” said Frodo with a grin.

“No indeed,” chuckled Bilbo.

Hildifons decided that it was high time someone paid him some attention and broke into what seemed set to become an extended discussion. “Excuse me,” he croaked in accusatory tones, “if I could just have the water?” 

Frodo raced to the pump as Bilbo attempted to calm their guest’s ruffled feathers but Hildifons refused to be placated and, as soon as he was able, took his leave. Bilbo offered Frodo as a companion on the road in case Hildifons should suffer any further ill effects from his experience but Hildifons was too much on his dignity to take up the suggestion, despite the opportunities that it might have presented. Heading straight home he once again threw himself into a frenzy of plotting and planning and was thus unaware of the conversation that was taking place in the taproom of the Green Dragon whence Bilbo had made his way after seeing Hildifons off of the premises.

“I hear you had the Doctor over this evening, Bilbo,” said Wilibard Bolger from his spot by the bar. “Nothing up with young Frodo, I hope?”

“No, Frodo’s in fine health, I just asked the Doctor up for a spot of dinner,” said Bilbo. “How did you know?”

“Oh, Otho was in earlier complaining that he’d asked Dr Brownlock to come and have a look at Lotho’s piles and was told that he couldn’t because of a prior appointment up at Bag End.”

“Can’t say I’d pass up a good meal for Lotho’s piles myself,” observed the Landlord to general agreement.

“My Halfred had a nasty case of piles a couple of winters back,” said Ham Gamgee. “Dora Stripper got me to go pick some nettles and mixed up a foul potion to dose him with. It fair made his eyes water, but it made them piles shrink too and no mistake. That Dr Brownlock could learn a lesson or two from Dora if he weren’t so high in the instep.”

“Aye,” said the Landlord, “you’d think he’d been dosed with one of Dora’s potions by the look on his face when she tried to give him some advice on how to deal with old Daddy Twofoot’s boils.”

“Ah don’t know about Daddy Twofoot’s boils,” said Ham, passing his tankard over for a refill, “but for all the use he is that there Doctor should go boil his head and be done with it!”

***

Hildifons passed a troubled night, filled with strange dreams where Frodo Baggins was pelting him with small pieces of cheese, and awoke to the patter of rain on his windows. However, after a hearty breakfast he felt much more the business despite the dreariness of the day. Once breakfast was over, Hildifons lingered by the fire until the rain began to abate. His first call of the day was to go and check up on Lily Cotton’s arthritis, which was beginning to play up as the autumn started to turn to winter. He’d been due to have a look at her when he was over seeing to Tom’s earache, but his dip in the Water had put paid to that and since then much of his time had been taken up in wandering the paths around Bag End looking for Frodo. Even so, he wasn’t going to get himself wet for any farmer’s wife.

By the early afternoon the rain had cleared up and Hildifons finally made his way to the Cotton farm. He was surprised when he got there to find Lily Cotton in the yard, vigorously beating a carpet that she had hung over the washing line.

“Mornin’ Dr Brownlock,” she called as Hildifons approached.

“Good morning Mrs Cotton,” replied Hildifons, “I wasn’t expecting you to be so lively after the last time I saw you.” 

“Ah well,” said Lily, “ we don’t get much fair weather at this time of year and I wanted to get this done while I could.”

“My treatment must be working well,” said Hildifons with no small measure of self-satisfaction.

“I’d been meaning to talk to you about that,” said Lily. “The treatment didn’t seem to be making me feel any better so I had a word with Dora Stripper when she came to see our Tom’s ear. She told me to carry a nutmeg in my pocket and that seems to have done the trick nicely. Still, it was nice of you to come over to check – would you like to come in for a cup of tea while you’re here?”

There was absolutely no force on earth that could have got Hildifons into the Cotton farmhouse after that and he bid a frosty goodbye to Lily before retracing his steps. Unfortunately the clouds had begun gathering again while he was out and before he had made it even half of the distance it had begun to rain heavily. 

Hildifons took refuge under a nearby tree and had resigned himself to a damp and uncomfortable wait. The rain had increased in its fury and fat drops had begun to make their way through the tree’s inadequate cover when suddenly he saw someone approaching carrying a large black umbrella. As that someone drew nearer to the tree under which Hildifons was sheltering he realised that it was Frodo exhibiting typical Baggins eccentricity by going walking in inclement weather. Hildifons could not believe his luck – here was an opportunity not only to get home safe and dry, but also to put Frodo in the way of a nice little chill.

“Master Baggins!” he called to the approaching hobbit.

“Dr Brownlock, “ said Frodo, joining him under the tree, “what are you doing out in this weather?”

“Answering the call of my patients,” replied Hildifons pompously, “how could I sit snugly in my hole when there was some poor hobbit needing my help?” He shook his head and continued: “But now I am stuck under this tree and that call must go unanswered.”

Frodo fell into the trap immediately. “You must take my umbrella, “ he said, offering it to Hildifons. “You need it far more than I.”

Hildifons demurred. “But will not your Guardian be expecting you back soon?”

“Not for some time, “ Frodo reassured him, “Bilbo will be lost in some book or other and has probably not even noticed that I am gone until tea-time.”

Better and better – Frodo could be stuck out in the open for some considerable time and no one would think to look for him. “Thank you Master Baggins, your sacrifice is much appreciated,” said Hildifons, taking the umbrella and setting out in the direction of the village leaving Frodo in the uncertain shelter of the tree.

Hildifons set off at a brisk pace. As he walked the rain eased off a little but, unfortunately for Hildifons, the wind began to pick up and he started to have terrible trouble in controlling Frodo’s umbrella. Suddenly a particularly strong blast ripped it entirely from Hildifons’ hands and sent it bowling along the path. Mindful that he wanted Bilbo to remember him as the hobbit who saved his young cousin rather than the one who lost his umbrella, Hildifons took off in pursuit. Sadly, despite his best efforts the umbrella remained just out of his grasp and eventually fetched up tangled in the branches of a tree that was overhanging the path.

Hildifons was in a quandary. He couldn’t leave the umbrella caught up in the tree but he was certainly not going to climb up after it. He would just have to use his brain. The end of the branch in which the errant umbrella was caught was fairly close to the ground and Hildifons found that he could just reach the leaves if he balanced on tiptoe. Gently pulling at them, he brought the branch within reach and pulled down on it. When enough of the branch was close to the floor, Hildifons anchored it under one of his feet and reached for the handle of the umbrella. However, just as he managed to get a grasp on it, the branch slipped out from under his, admittedly rather slimy, foot and the branch sprang upwards taking both the umbrella and Hildifons with it.

Hildifons now found himself dangling, rather precariously, several feet off of the ground. This was no position for a respectable physician and, despite the potential danger, Hildifons was rather glad that no one was around to witness it. Sadly, even this very small silver lining was abruptly ripped from his grasp as he heard a voice calling to him from below.

“Hoy, Dr Brownlock! What be the problem?”

The voice belonged to a rather damp Ham Gamgee. Really, thought Hildifons, did no one in this benighted place have the sense to stay indoors in bad weather instead of roaming around and asking stupid questions? Still, stupid question or no, he supposed he had to answer it.

“As you can undoubtedly see for yourself, Mr Gamgee, I am presently caught in this tree.”

“Hmm, “ said Ham, “I may not be a learned fellow like yourself, but that don’t seem like a good idea to me.”

“I am not up here by choice,” snapped Hildifons, “I was trying to retrieve this umbrella.”

“Ah,” said Ham, thoughtfully, “It’s a fine umbrella, ‘tis true. Mr Bilbo has one just like it if I recollect.”

Hildifons ground his teeth in frustration. “Whilst it is hardly the point, this is indeed Mr Baggins’ umbrella. Young Master Frodo lent it to me earlier when I was caught in the rain.”

“He be a thoughtful young hobbit that one,” said Ham, “‘tis a pity he’s not here now…a young ‘un like that could shin up that tree in no time and help you down.”

“Can’t you do that?” asked Hildifons, impatiently.

“Nay,” replied Ham, without a glimmer of contrition, “these old bones would never make it. ’Sides I be far too heavy for that there branch what with you dangling from it already, we’d both come a tumbling down if I did try.”

“I left Frodo sheltering under a tree back up the path, “ said Hildifons, “with the rain easing up I would hazard that he is not far behind me. Perhaps you could go and find him?”

“Aye, “ said Ham and, touching his forelock briefly, turned and ambled up the path.

Frodo must indeed have left the shelter of the tree, for it was only a few minutes later that Hildifons sighted the pair of them returning. Ham must have explained the situation to Frodo as they walked, as Frodo wasted no time in shucking his coat and climbing up the tree. Reaching the branch from which Hildifons dangled, he slowly inched out towards him. However, the branch proved to be insufficiently sturdy even to take Frodo’s additional weight. With a sharp snap, the branch broke sending Hildifons, Frodo and the umbrella plummeting towards the earth. Hildifons hit the ground on his back, the umbrella skittering out of his grasp. The next second, Frodo landed atop of him forcing what breath was still left right out of his body. Had he been able, Hildifons would undoubtedly have screamed, such was the pain in his chest.

Frodo rolled quickly off, calling: ”Dr Brownlock, Dr Brownlock, are you all right?” but Hildifons could not answer. 

Ham Gamgee bent over Hildifons and ran his hands down his chest. “Don’t feel like nothing’s broken, Dr Brownlock,” he said cheerfully. Turning to Frodo he said, “you take one arm and I’ll take the other. We’d better get him back to the village so I can send one of the lads to fetch Dora to have a look at him.”

The journey home was slow and painful, but no more so than the healing process which was made more uncomfortable by Dora Stripper’s insistence that Hildifons’ ribs be bound tightly with bandages soaked in vinegar and that he be dosed regularly with cream tartar whey to keep his bowels open. In the meantime, Dora took over all of his patients and he was forever being tormented by tales of her miraculous cures from the older Gamgee children who were taking turns in keeping an eye on him. Even worse, one day when Frodo popped in to see him he found out that Bilbo was very pleased with the way she had cured his eye strain by recommending that he bathe them each day with cold tea.

This was the last straw for Hildifons who, as soon as he was able, packed his bags and headed back to Buckland. The locals, it has to be said, were not particularly sad to see him go though they did use his departure to raise a glass or two in the Green Dragon.

“So Bilbo,” said Griffo Boffin, “will you be looking for someone to take Dr Brownlock’s place?”

“I don’t think so,” said Bilbo, “Dora Stripper coped perfectly well before he arrived.”

“Well,” said Sandyman the Miller, “if truth be told, she looked after most people while he was here. I tried to get him to take a look at my Ted’s warts but he weren’t interested. Dora got ‘em sorted straight off, she just tied red cotton thread around the warts, then hung it from the hinge of a door and a few days later them warts were gone.”

“I’m not surprised, “muttered Ham Gamgee under his breath, “not even a wart would want to stick around a Sandyman.”

“Speaking of Dora,” said Bilbo, “I really must get her over to have a look at Frodo. He’s been looking a bit peaky of late...”


End file.
